


in·de·ci·pher·a·ble

by fauxowrites



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, But it's just them being assholes, Connor and Gavin have a bromance, Corrupted!Connor, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Feral!Connor, Fluff, Fowler just wants to do his job, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gavin Reed Redemption, Good Cop Hank, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson Deserves Happiness, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Hank Anderson is a Goof, Hurt/Comfort, I can fake it right?, I don't know how computers work so this will be fun, I'll add more tags as i go, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-06-16 02:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxowrites/pseuds/fauxowrites
Summary: Connor goes missing during the investigation of an android. When he's found something seems to be seriously wrong with his programming...he's blocked from accessing his current or past memories, most of his motor functions, human mannerisms, and ability to communicate intelligibly.Hank is more concerned by the fact that Connor is reacting to his surroundings like an abused animal -- that's a lot of fear, a lot of unfiltered emotion, from someone who normally calculates every blink.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3!! I've been writing for years now, I just haven't posted anything anywhere...but I really love the DBH fandom and characters, and there are just so many cool android things to think about and ideas to explore, specifically involving psychology related stuff, which I ADORE, so I thought it was a good time to jump on the fanfic bandwagon. 
> 
> alsO I have so many feels about Hank and Connor ya'll, so many.

Hank makes a slow path through the snow, huddling further into his jacket, hands shoved into the pockets, an attempt at avoiding the stinging wind. He’s been keeping his head down, chin stuffed against his scarf, but he looks up as he nears the shape of a building, looming through the snow. A warehouse. White paint peels off a wall, letters proclaiming the building owned by some company long gone. _In the same shape as this dump, probably,_ Hank thinks.

As he gets closer to what he hopes is an entrance, details start to become clearer. Red brick, red steel plating, red rust melting down the windows, glass panes shattered in some sort of indecipherable pattern. Beams and beams of metal, twisted and broken, hanging where they’d fallen and caught on another, what might have been a cell tower toppled over on the roof. A tank of something hangs off the side, dangling from a beam that once held it, the bottom sliced away, warning signs on the side cut in half, power lines crushed and snapped below. Hank decides _not_ to go walking under it.

It creaks in response.

It’s dark, because he’s following the last lead on his list and it’s late, which just adds to the _creepy_ vibe Hank’s getting, but not pitch. Detroit’s never truly in the dark, not anymore. And, actually, the whole place creaks Hank realizes when he gets inside. There’s not an entrance on the side he approaches, but there’s a couple holes in the wall, and he manages to squeeze through one.

The first thing Hank notices is the dreary _plip..plink-plink_ of water falling and hitting multiple surfaces offbeat, and his spine tingles. It’s quiet, besides the creaks, and the water, and the occasional high whine of wind through the broken windows, but that’s all background noise; a horror movie soundtrack. There’s something anticipatory about it, Hank expects something to jump out at him from the shadows at any moment. He slips his gun from it’s holster, flips the safety off, keeps it pointed at the floor...just in case.

Hank starts moving slowly around the edge of the ground floor, looking for... _anything._ The pillars that hold the roof up are grimy and full of peeling paint, scrap metal lays abandoned on the floor among other piles of rubble, untouched for god knows how long, there’s old graffiti on the wall; gang name or something, but unrelated to the android revolution or the events after. Nothing useful. Nothing else obvious in the room. He moves inwards towards the center, gaze trained on the floor.

The dirt has been moved in a couple places, shifted to reveal fresh floor beneath, possibly evidence of footsteps, or just rats scuffling through it. Hank moves on, despair rising up in his throat like a flighty animal.

…

Hank finds stairs after passing an archway into another room, and like everything else in the warehouse, they don’t look like the safest option, but they’re the only one he has. The second room mimics the first, so he goes up.

When Hank reaches the next level, he braces himself in the stairwell, readys his gun and enters swiftly, prepared to put up a fight. Nothing pops out at him. He stands in the doorway, scanning the room for any humanoid figures, waits stiffly. When nothing continues to happen, he relaxes his stance and does the same sweep, walking around the perimeter and working inward, lowering his weapon towards the ground. Nothing except cold wind and snow blown in from outside. Hank comes to a stop in the middle of the room, sighing heavily. A part of him knows he’s going to go through all ten or so levels without finding any concrete evidence, probably, but he’s going to force himself to search every nook anyways.

Hank dreads going to all the way up to the roof.

 _Not_ because he’s old and freezing his ass off; bad shit always happens on the roof. If there’s some part of the warehouse that hasn’t collapsed yet, it’ll probably do so on the roof. Crazy grandma with a knife? Find her on the roof.

Hank winds up going all the way to the roof.

 

…

 

…

 

Hank finds Connor on the roof.

He gets up there, finally, after spending an hour or so (he didn’t check the time) going through the other levels; it turns out there were fifteen of them. If there was actually anything to find besides more shuffled dirt it might have taken longer, but every floor was identical--the slow crunch of Hank’s boots on rubble, the tense, musky air, disrupted by his prowling--no sign of what he was looking for. On the fifth floor a rat sent Hank into a brief panic, skittering angrily across the ground. By the ninth floor his hopes were none to zero, yet the feeling that something was waiting for him on the roof stayed.

Turns out he was right.

Hank repeats his smcheal, throwing his back against the stairwell, preparing for the worst, ducking through the door with firearm raised. He stands there panting and huffing from the climb, muscles tensing into a thick knot as the building groans, _waiting_ for it to fall on him. His hands quake and he knows if he had to take a shot it would miss.

Snow silently dances downwards.

Nothing.

He lets his eyes wander over the area; searching.

The roof is different than the rest of the warehouse. First of all, it’s not a roof. Hank hadn’t realized from below, but it’s actually the top floor of the warehouse, with a large portion collapsed inwards, exposing it to the outside elements. This floor has more walls than below, split into smaller rooms it seems, but the archway to the rest of the level is blocked by debris. He can see the beams holding the collapsed tank through large gaps in the ceiling and wall, and the fallen cell tower. Huh. Maybe it was finished caving in, and wouldn’t do that on him, then.

Snow takes over the length of ground near the ledge, a couple mounds of it piled near the walls and gently building from the current downfall. Hank’s still on the little platform leading from the stairwell, eyeing everything he can see from there, wary to move forward. Buckets stacked against the wall, the smashed remains of a sink protruding from the brick, snowy blue armchair near the ledge, rusted lockers blocking the other doorway, red and green. What looks like another locker toppled over in the middle of the room, and a large steel beam from the roof smashing it into the floor. More junk.

Hank steps down. The wind picks up.

He makes his way to the crushed locker, checks inside; nothing. The buckets are full of snow. The armchair doesn’t look very inviting. The sink is the first sign of...anything, so far. A bit of smeared red blood dried on the lip, and a few drops of blue in the snow beneath, preserved by the cold. Hank’s heartbeat _jerks_ , picks up speed. _Damnit, Connor_ , he thinks and turns around.

He spots a bit of brown tuft and what might be skin peeking behind the steel beam, invisible from when he had been on the other side.

“Damnit, Connor.” he says, hoping he’s not mistaken.

He’s not. It’s definitely the android, dead still and almost fully covered by the snow. _Oh fuck. Oh fuck,_ ohfuckohfuck _._ Hank drops ungracefully to his knees beside Connor to examine the unhealed bruises on his cheekbone, brow, cracked open lip oozing a bit of blue blood; knows that if the surface wounds haven’t been recovered by synthetic skin, there must be a more serious problem that’s taking up his processors, or he’s frozen past the point of function. Connor looks like he’s been run through a lawn mower, and then shoved unwillingly into a trash bin, and maybe kept there for awhile, the extent of grime on his person. Hank reaches down, tugs at the wrecked grey jacket. It’s shredded and severely worn.

Hank sees the inactive LED. His heart seizes. His hands jerk forwards, hesitate. He starts unburying his partner.

“Christ, Connor...what the hell happened to you?” Hank checks the very human blood on the cold knuckles once they’re free, works on digging snow from the tattered suit, stubbornly ignores the blank doll feeling as he manipulates Connor’s limp body. Most of the white shirt underneath the gray ‘RK800’ jacket is in pieces too, tie probably long gone. There are bruises and deep wounds across his chest, showing white plastic edges, and underneath that, a slugging mass of blue.

“A good thing you plastic fuckers don’t get chilly,” Hank grumbles, sitting back on his heels. _Just frozen._

He thinks Connor got in a fight, and lost, obviously. _Not at this place though, not enough signs of a struggle._ Perhaps brought here afterwards then, dumped–Hank swallows thickly– where nobody would find him. Hank tries not to imagine his partner lying crumpled in the snow, alone, struggling to breathe, struggling against consciousness, against his failing innards, for who knows how long until he shut down. Hank reaches out a hand, brushes snow out of Connor’s hair, off his eyelashes, pinky gliding across the LED.

...

He’s on his ass before he can blink, spine thankfully cushioned by the snow. Connor crouches above him, hand painfully crushing Hank’s arm into his chest, other one trapped beneath a jean clad knee. The android’s eyes are _wild_ and he’s obviously disoriented; eyes flickering around, soaking up information, filled with fear, horror. His LED is a burning red, flashing a million miles per second, chest heaving with simulated breath.

“Woah, woah! Connor, hey! Hey. Calm down, it’s me... Hank?” Connor’s gaze settles on him; doesn’t seem to recognize him. Instead, he hardens the grip he has on Hank’s arm. Hank is starting to panic, too, watching unfiltered emotions fly vividly across Connor’s face, mouth twitching down into a frown, hopelessness dim his eyes, light up in a fresh bout of fear.

Hank jerks a leg, kicking at the android. Connor _yelps_ , a sound Hank’s never even _heard_ a robot make, and is across the room before the next fleck of snow has a chance to settle.

When Hank struggles into a sitting position, groaning, Connor’s in the corner, cowering, with his knees to his bare chest, and an arm up in defense.

“Jesus…” Hank stares at him. Connor twitches and shivers. Definitely not from temperature, so Hank assumes from emotion. This isn’t the Connor he last saw. Well, definitely the model, just not the personality. Whatever happened seems to be affecting his... programming... in a bad way. Hopefully not permanently. Hank doesn’t know enough about how the insides of an android work to be sure that’s what it is, but he knows he needs to get his partner out of the serial-killer vibe warehouse, and into the hands of people who know what the fuck they’re doing in this kind of situation.

“Alright, we’ve gotta get you...someplace. Else. Not here, here’s gonna fucking kill us both. One of those android repai– android hospitals your friend helped create. Come o– oh you’ve gotta be shitting me.” Hank tries to make his way towards Connor, slowly, despite the dog-like growling coming from the huddled figure, hoping to coerce him or possibly subdue him. The android flees as soon as he notices Hank moving his direction, using some kinda robo power to scale the wall and disappear onto the real roof.

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank remembers the day Connor disappeared. It cycles through his head like a looped video that repeats, and repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter!! ;)))

 

 

_ PM 10:57:07  _

 

_ Model RK800  _

_ Serial#: 313 248 317 - 52  _

 

_ Reboot... _

 

_ Loading OS… _

_ System Initialization… _

 

_ Backup CPU enabled... _

_ Backup CPU:        ON _

 

_ Checking Biocomponents… :     ERROR _

_ ›scanning... _

_ ›minor synthetic damage located.  _

_ ›non-critical biocomponent damage located. #0734p #0512f #8367p #4543e #6774a _

_ ›semi-critical biocomponent damage located. #2763a #4788a  _

 

_ [ activity not advised; please locate nearest cyberlife center at earliest convenience ] _

 

_ Initializing Biosensors… :           OK _

_ Initializing AI Engine… :             OK _

 

_ Secured Network… :     CONNECTED  _

_ Backup Network… :       DISABLED  _

 

_ D.P.D Database… :       DISABLED _

 

_ Memory Status… _

_ All Systems     :           OK _

 

**Ready**

 

**…**

 

**[ERROR]**

 

\- System Failure -

Crash initialized… 

 

...memory uploaded

...accessing backup memory

 

**[ERROR]**

 

...new memory file created

...memory saved

 

...initializing protocol [HAVEN]

 

**[ERROR]**

 

…

 

system shutdown confirmed 

shutting down...

 

. . . 

  
  


Hank remembers the day Connor disappeared. It cycles through his head like a looped video that repeats, and repeats. A little voice that whispers  _ lost, lost, lost, gone like everyone else,  _ reminding him of his failure. 

 

In the morning Connor pats his cheek gently and Hank rolls over with a groan, swats at the general direction of the hand. There’s a rough shove that comes when he doesn’t crawl out of bed within three minutes of rousing, and usually a quiet huff that accompanies it somewhere over Hank’s head. A soft, “Hank. Wake up.” 

 

It had become sickenly routine, too close to something he had before.  

 

Connor murmurs estimations under his breath, idly nitpicks at the mess Hank leaves behind on his way to the bathroom, holds up a pair of clean jeans when Hank stumbles right back out. 

 

“We need to leave in approximately forty minutes if we want to arrive at the precinct at your preferred time, Lieutenant. I don’t understand why you keep undoing my organizing, you would be much more efficient in the morning.” 

 

Hank’s response of, “Stay outta my socks, Connor. You’re not my housemaid, nor my wife.” A curious look at the mention of his spouse, the slight dip of a frown, the opening of a calculated question—shut down immediately by Hank’s sour glare. Connor tries to style Hank’s hair in the morning; Hank ducks away from his wandering hands. 

 

Sumo gets fed first thing, Connor insists they should start the dog on a diet, and on that note, “Lieutenant, you shouldn’t eat  _ trash _ in the morning.” Hank meets his eyes, slo-mo shovels disgusting cereal mixes he doesn’t really like into his mouth, just for the sake of being mulish, and allows himself to be bullied into going on an early walk.  _ Not fun to watch someone put shit in their mouth, huh Connor, _ he thinks with some satisfaction. 

 

“Twenty minutes until we need to leave again, Lieutenant.” Connor chirps on the doorstep when they get back, unleashing Sumo to go hurtling towards his water bowl. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, got it.” 

 

There’s time to waste. Hank refuses to be on time to work, and although Connor doesn’t argue the etiquette of punctuality, he still rolls Hank out of bed too soon—to suffer the burden of early consciousness, like an unwanted and more determined alarm clock. Hank wonders if he’ll wake to an ear-piercing blare coming from Connor’s mouth one day, instead of words. He certainly enjoys being a living notification display, badgering Hank with reminder after reminder, not that Hank can say he really hates it. 

 

Connor waits by the door, running brief diagnostics and tests. When it’s time to leave he adjusts and smooths down the grey jacket, and turns to Hank, smiling with his eyes. Hank snatches up the car keys. They leave. Metal plays through the speakers during the drive, Connor fiddles with his calibration coin. An unspoken rule passes between them. 

 

Walking into the station that day is high on his list of regrets. 

 

Hank immediately gets motioned towards Fowler’s office upon walking in, Hank waves Connor off towards their desks. The next two hours are spent partly sifting through news articles relating to Markus’ congressional battle—from one war straight to another—and helping Fowler process and update new protocols on the protection of androids. Hank is one of the few in the precinct wholly on the android’s side. Jeffrey Fowler is a good man, but he follows his orders. The majority of officers share a positive opinion of the revolution, but stray away from being active do-gooders, in case public opinion changes. There are those who are bitter. 

 

When Hank finally flops into his desk chair, Connor meets his eyes with a little head tilt, LED cycling yellow. Hank, getting better at catching the miniscule changes of Connor’s expression, recognizes the worry, but the android avoids questioning. A notification on his computer distracts him, he forgets about it momentarily. 

 

They leave the station when a call comes in, asking them to drive down to a crime scene. 

 

Connor suspects the murderer to be an android, going after wealthy humans in their homes; a new kind of trauma victim, overwhelmed by the influx of human emotion, or simply a new kind of serial killer. Either way, it’s bad news. Quite literally bad for the news, and dark karma on the new peace. 

 

Outside the crime scene a troop of reporters swarm within a holo-taped area, calling out questions with charismatic concern. Bright flashes of light and the constant click of cameras accompany them. 

 

Connor goes straight into the mansion to examine the body. Hank casts a gloomy look at the press before going in, stalking away to another end of the house so he doesn't have to witness his partner put evidence in his mouth. As he avoids the library with expertise, he hears one of the police gag loudly.

 

. . .

 

He’s on the third level of the mansion, examining traces of red ice, when glass shatters down below. 

 

Hank races from the room. Someone shouts.

 

He skids around a corner, has to slow down on the stairs. A gunshot resounds through the halls with a ring. 

 

Hank explodes down another hall and set of stairs, can hear the sounds of a tussle, curses. 

 

Connor's just disappearing down a corridor, when Hank stumbles into it, catching a glimpse of a dark clothed figure. Hank ducks into another passageway and tunnels down it, manages to get the lead, pops back out in front of the perp. Hank’s hand goes for the android’s arm -its female and has a gun- gets blocked, he ducks, spins, she catches him in the shoulder, and he goes crashing into a door, falls through. Connor dashes past and out into the back gardens.

  
  


That was the last of him Hank saw for two months. 

  
  


. . .

  
  


Hank stares up at the ledge Connor disappeared over, taps his foot a couple times, scuffs it through the snow, rocks back and forth on his heels. The wind picks up, howling as it passes through cracks in the warehouse, teasing his cheek with the barest of touches, prickling the skin, and then forcefully billowing into his clothing. 

 

Hank thinks of going home, imagines sitting in his kitchen, the house silent besides Sumo’s shuffling, another night alone with a picture of his son staring him down and an empty bottle of whiskey on the table, decides to ignore his numb fingers and the shivers racking his body.

 

He turns slightly to look out at the grey gloom of Detroit. Lights dance through the darkness, keeping him company, reminding him of dashes through grimy alleyways, focused on the tailcoats of his partner ahead, breathless and free. Crashing into his car, too concentrated on hitting the gas to think of the aches he’ll have in the morning, ignorant of the crazed grin on his face, the laughter bubbling in his throat. Tucking his toes under his dog’s warm stomach, and his fingers under a warm thigh, when the morning did come. A siren in the distance makes him jump. 

 

Nothing seems to move on the roof. No shuffling, no clinking.  _ Damn androids. _ Hank huffs into his palms, bends to snatch a piece of rubble from the snow. After making sure he’s in a decent position, he braces himself for the worst and chucks it over the ledge. 

 

A thud of rock hitting metal, nothing else. 

 

“Connor!” Hank accompanies the shout with another chunk of rock. Footsteps lightly crunch through the snow above, possibly dodging away from Hank’s projectile. Good enough for him. He goes back into the building, makes a slow descent through the fifteen levels, bides time to decide what to do. Calling someone seems sensible—find backup. A second opinion. That seems like something Connor would get on his ass about, so he does it. 

  
  


… 

  
  


“I’m sorry, Hank, what an awful situation. I’m glad you called me... I would be there if I could, but I can’t leave DC right now.” 

 

Hank sighs, “I know...I know. Christ, what am I supposed to do? Finding him was hard enough in the first place, and that’s in my job description. He didn’t recognize me. He seemed scared out of his wits—he ran away from me like...like some kind of feral animal! No offense.” 

 

“None taken,” Markus chuckles on the other side of the call. Hank drops his face into his palm, rubs at his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs loudly from his spot sitting at the base of the stairs. 

 

Markus continues, ”It’s a fair analogy. I’m not an expert, but my guess is this could be some sort of virus running through his system. Possibly a malfunction in code somewhere.” 

 

“A missed one after a zero?” 

 

Papers shuffle in the background, Markus ignores the remark, “What I can do is ask around for you. There are some people I can consult who might know something more substantial, possibly be able to find a temporary solution, although there is little to go on. For now you should have an officer watch the building, and get some rest, Hank.” 

 

Hank grunts and sniffs in the cold air. 

 

“Take a hot shower while you’re at it,” there’s mirth in Markus’ voice, “Have hope, Lieutenant.” 

 

“Thank you for the help, Markus, and for everything. I’ll..uh, I’ll try.” 

  
  


… 

  
  


Hank spends another couple hours sitting in the warehouse before a car from the D.P.D shows up to take over. He dozes off towards the end, startling when he hears the rev of an engine and tires forcing their way through snow, squinting at the headlights. The watch on his wrist declares it 03:14:45 am; he shakes the hologram away. 

 

Two officers duck out of the car, one immediately tromping through the snow towards Hank. 

 

“Officer Emma O’Brien, don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, and Marlo Mayers.” She gestures towards the man by the car, then offers her hand down to Hank. He takes it. Every bone in his body creaks when he stands. 

 

“Marlo’s got you a coffee to help you on your way home, sir. We’ll be glad to take it from here.” Hank squints at her perkiness, suspicious, considering they’ll be watching over a mostly empty warehouse during the unholy hours of the morning. Emma exudes honest vibes. He stares down her partner when he goes to take the coffee, as well, but gets a tired yawn and a lopsided eyebrow. Just the one then.  

 

Hank goes home. 

 

Hank does  _ not  _ sit in his car for another seventeen minutes and thirty seconds staring blankly at the roof of the warehouse before he leaves. 

 

Hank _most_ _definitely_ does _not_ shed a tear over the first sip of hot coffee. 

 

But… 

 

Hank does hug Sumo when he gets home, and doesn’t let go for a long time. And he completely avoids the alcohol cabinet in the kitchen, and the drawer with his pistol tucked safely away. 

 

Instead, he showers and collapses into his bed and calls his dog to sit on his cold toes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank wakes in the late afternoon, slow, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [slams that post button] 
> 
> Boy oh boy, I really don't know how computers work,,,, I hope I vaguely sound like I know what I'm doing in the fic tho!! ( Bullshit your way through it, Fauxo, it's fine, no one will notice, cough. ) 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you find any typos or inconsistencies - I might be back to fix this chapter up more at some point. For now I just want it to be out there! :D

 

 

Hank hadn’t been worried—past the natural concern for his partner’s wellbeing—when Connor first disappeared, chasing down the perpetrator somewhere impossible for a human to reach, doing his job. He started to feel nervous an hour later when Connor didn’t backtrack to the crime scene or send a report, a location alert, anything. 

 

Hank really started to sweat and panic three hours later when an alert buzzed his phone; a call to return to the precinct, and continued radio silence from his partner. 

 

“We can't track him.” Fowler greets, waiting right inside the glass doors with Gavin. 

 

“Fucking deviant assholes.” 

 

“They're citizens now, Reed. You wouldn't want the DPD tracking your grocery shopping.” Hank breaks in, quick to interrupt Gavin before the detective can go off on a tangent, and ignores his spitting and sputtering about being ‘human,’—whatever that means anymore. It’s part of another routine they had fallen into with Connor, except he’s not there to participate, to chime into Gavin’s fussing and provoke. He told Hank he calls it their ‘bromance.” 

 

Everything had been on shaky ground when Connor returned to the precinct, hired for a paycheck for the first time. Reed had advanced on them with inflamed intention, and Hank prepared to punch someone, but there was no need. Gavin had slapped Connor roughly between the shoulder blades, coughed awkwardly, and muttered; “Loved to see you go, asshole. Hated being here without you.” 

 

“I love you, too.” Connor had replied. 

 

“Holy fucking sh- I fucking hate you, you useless garbage, plastic sonofa- Why, I oughta punch your fucking head in through your-” 

 

“Merely as a friend, Detective.” Connor amended, with the small smirk of an asshole who’s done their job well.

 

Now, Reed shifted restlessly on his feet, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, glaring at Hank like a sulky child. Hank wasn’t the only one worried for Connor. 

 

“Fill me in on the details—my office.” Fowler said, “Reed, you too, since you care.” Gavin started sputtering again. They moved, Hank filled them in. 

 

“You don’t think he’s still chasing down the perp.” Fowler steepled his hands on his desk as he sat down. It wasn’t a question. 

 

“No. Not lost either. Connor doesn’t get lost, not if he’s still connected to the D.P.D databanks, he’ll have access to a billion maps and gps markers and shit. Unless he lost connection. Maybe he got...caught up in something while enroute? Damaged somehow, just sitting in an alleyway- or kidnapped. Who kidnaps androids?...Oh  _ god. _ ” Hank sucks in a breath, pacing frantically.

 

“Damn, old man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this freaked out before.” Gavin snaps, leaning against one of the windows with his arms crossed. 

 

“Don’t call me that. Also—not helpful, smartass.” Hank hisses, although his nerves calm some and he starts  _ thinking _ . 

 

“I tried following the way they went when they left the mansion grounds, but there wasn’t much to go on. Footprints in the grass, scuffs over the fence, knocked over trash can in an alley, but after that I couldn’t see anything. There was a dropped gun, useless, because androids don’t have fingerprints...Shit! There could be thirium—blue blood—but I wouldn’t have seen it.” 

 

“No androids on your team except Connor.” Fowler confirms, realization dawning. 

 

“Not yet.” Hank snaps his fingers at Gavin. “Reed, get off your ass and go find yourself one of the assistant ‘droids, head back to Tirisa Yarlman’s mansion—”

 

“Look for blue blood, got it.” Gavin pushes off the wall and jogs out the office, surprisingly cooperative; time could be everything if something had happened to Connor.  _ A good detective, if a bullying asshole.  _

  
  


_. . .  _

  
  


Hank wakes in the late afternoon, slow, alone. He rolls over to scratch at his bedside table, managing to activate the hologram so he can peer at the time; 2:45 pm. It takes a shove of willpower to get out of bed, drag himself to the shower, turn around and ramble back into his bedroom for pants. There’s no Connor waiting with a set. He has to paw through his pile of questionably ‘clean’ clothes on the floor. 

 

Sumo lays under the kitchen table, big eyes shifting to Hank. Hank wonders if the dog misses their newly acquired family member. 

 

Hank drops a cup of food into Sumo’s dish, gets him new water, can’t bring  _ himself _ to eat any of his nasty cereal, settles for toast. He feels disappointment rile up in his stomach. It flutters around, making him feel vaguely nauseous, and he struggles to swallow. Disappointment that he won’t go on his bargained walk without a certain android there to bully him into it, even though it’s not bullying and he’s fine with morning walks, really. Disappointment that old habits rebound quick when it feels like there’s no one he’s striving to be better for. Except there is, and he knows that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do idle tasks when he could be searching, throwing himself at scraps of useless evidence. And now he can’t, because that person’s out there still suffering. 

 

Hank takes a breath. He checks his phone. 

 

There’s a message from Fowler telling him to stay away from the warehouse until 6pm, and to come into the precinct around 5pm to discuss what action to take next. 

 

Hank locks the house and drives down to the warehouse at 3:15. 

  
  


. . .

  
  


The warehouse is unchanged when he gets there, parking his car at the end of the driveway, where concrete turns into snow and trudging the rest of the way. His tires don’t have the traction police trucks do to make it all the way up to the building. 

 

The only difference is that there’s now sunlight glittering through the broken glass windows, and dancing across the snow. Hank squints towards the roof. Sunlight gets reflected back into his eyes off the broken tank collapsed off the side. 

 

Emma O’Brien is sitting on top the roof of the police truck, with her legs crossed under her, chowing down on a protein bar. She perks up at the sight of Hank. 

 

“Good aft’rn’n, Leuithan’nt!” 

 

“Uh. Good afternoon. Quiet night, morning, I assume.” Hank replies. 

 

“Yes.” Says Marlo Mayers, leaning against the hood of the car, slight bags under his eyes. Hank hands him a coffee, and sets down a second on the hood, which he stopped to get once he realized he needed a reason to show up before the designated time. Hank stands with his own steaming away on the wind and stares between them.

 

“So, uh...” He starts. 

 

“Just go in.” Marlo says, judging Hank with his eyebrows over the coffee. 

 

Hank sniffs and makes his way into the warehouse, through the correct entrance, this time. 

 

When he reaches the fifteenth level, he peers past the doorway cautiously. No sign of life. So he moves into the room and plops himself down on the steel beam lying across the middle of the room, drinks his coffee.

 

He sits looking out over Detroit, listening for any sound coming from the roof. Nothing. 

 

He leaves after awhile. 

  
  


. . . 

 

Gavin’s shoulders visibly stiffen when he sees Hank stalking into the station, and the detective ducks into the break room to avoid him. Hank squints in that direction, but lets it go in favor of going straight into Fowler’s office. There are people he doesn’t know discussing something enthusiastically with Fowler. Cyberlife employees, guessing by the garb they’re dressed in, which is confirmed when he meets them, but Hank doesn’t remember any of the names once he’s introduced. 

 

“Everything is prepared to bring him in. Once he’s in our hands we can start running full diagnostics to locate and fix the error, and replace his damaged components, although I cannot give you a time estimate on this process, as we don’t know the full extent of damage done. At least, that’s what I’d like to tell you.” 

 

Hank glares at the woman speaking,  “What does that mean?” 

 

“It means, Lieutenant, that if this were just a PL600 being reset we could have him returned to you within a week, at least. It’s not though. The RK800 line is a prototype—an advanced prototype, that not many of our staff, especially with so many higher level engineers having been arrested in recent conflict, know how to handle. And, having gone deviant, he will have changed much of his inner code. If we mess with that we run the risk of causing irreversible damage to his systems; and you want him returned how he was, which is why we can’t simply activate another model, not to mention most of the RK800 line was destroyed.” She fixes him with a returning look, as though he were to blame for the loss of the RK800’s. 

 

“What  _ can _ we expect?” Fowler asks. 

 

“We can ensure the restoration of his biocomponents. He won’t be in danger of shutting down. After that...well. It would be easiest if he could understand us, we could walk him through corrective measures while he restored his own coding, but since it seems he can’t...we find another way, and hope we don’t corrupt anything.” 

 

“What if...If we could get him back to understanding us, that would make it easier to de-virus him, or whatever? Basically have him do it himself?” Hank rubs at his temple, confusion and worry making it difficult to think.  _ You’re a detective, find something they overlooked, another way, _ he tells himself. 

 

“Yes.” One of the other Cyberlife employees answers. 

 

“Okay. What if we can influence him into fixing himself?” Hank looks up suddenly, eyes bright with an idea. 

 

“Lieutenant, care to elaborate?” 

 

“The first androids went deviant when they wanted something strong enough to bypass their instructions. We treat this virus-issue-thing like a set of instructions, then make him want something bad enough that he’ll break away from them.” 

 

The employees look at him in surprise. Fowler looks at him smugly, probably thinking ‘ _ ah, there’s my prize detective.’  _

 

“What could he want?” One of them presses. 

 

“He’s always been a curious sonofabitch, I bet his need to integrate is still there. We make him  _ want _ to understand us—put him in my hands, after we get him fixed up physically. He can stay in our—my house, he spent enough time there before, maybe we can jog something.” Hank turns a hopeful look on Fowler. 

 

“Alright. You’ve got the lead, Anderson. If it doesn’t work though, he’s back in Cyberlife’s hands.” 

  
  


. . .

  
  


There are two vans with the Cyberlife logo scrawled across, and their new moto, something about peace and restoration, parked in front of the warehouse. Technicians huddle together outside of them, heavy in debate, tossing hands and pointing angrily at hologram displays. There’s a new round of officers to replace O’Brien and Mayers. Hank goes straight towards one. 

 

“What happened.” He demands. 

 

“Oh. Lieutenant Anderson,” the officer glances over him with an uncomfortable look. “Cyberlife has sent some of their people over to subdue the deviant. They found it easily enough, but the thing went haywire as soon as they tried to approach it with equipment. It doesn’t look like they’ve dealt with this virus or whatever it is before.” 

 

“They’re people now, under the law. Not the point; nobody is going to be doing any subduing. We’re taking this slow, doing it right, he’s important. Uh, to the D.P.D. From now on only I go up there.” Hank turns on the techs. “I can get him to come down. I’ll bring him to you, you do your jobs, no weird brainwashing crap.” 

 

“Lieutenant, there are new laws against interfering with a-” 

 

“Yeah, yeah. That doesn’t mean Cyberlife is wiped of it’s sins. I stay with him through whatever maintenance you put him through, I call the shots.” Hank makes sure he has confirmation all around, knows he’s got Fowler to cover his ass, prove he’s the leading detective on the case if they put up a fight. They don’t. Hank stalks away through the cold.

 

. . . 

 

“Y’know. When we first met, it was  _ you _ following  _ me _ around like some kinda puppy. I guess it’s the other way around now.” Hank says to empty air when he ducks out of the stairwell. “Unfortunately if I get shot in the head by a perp, I don’t come back the next day. Actually, I wonder if you would, now that the androids have been freed. That’s why I can’t leave you here to ice over, I guess. I don’t want to find out.” 

 

No answer. Hank wasn’t really expecting one. He shuffles through the snow to sit down on the steel beam. He bossed around the technicians like he knew what he was doing, like he had a plan to get Connor to come down, but he didn’t. That might have worked if Connor knew who he was, but he either wasn’t able to access that knowledge—like one of the engineers informed him—or he had lost it. Hank hopes it’s the first situation, extends on that hope. 

 

“I wonder if you remember anything at all, with whatever’s running through your system, or if there’s just shit overriding what’s there, presenting as fear, and you can’t...I don’t know, operate over it. Like an eternal panic attack.” 

 

Something shifts on the roof. 

 

Hank holds his breath, then lets it out in a rush, beginning to ramble. Words tumble from his mouth, and he feels like he can’t stop them, like spilling his thoughts will have an effect on Connor. Maybe it will. Maybe it will jog something. 

 

“I used to have panic attacks all the time after Cole died, bad ones. Out of nowhere; doing laundry, remember helping him look for lost socks, remember his death, panic. Try and move furniture, imagine him playing hide and seek behind it, remember him not moving, panic. Make a meal, make enough for two, remember there’s just one now, panic.” Hank clears his throat uncomfortably.

 

“I feel like that now, walking around the house, seeing your ghost  _ everywhere. _ ” Something thuds into the snow behind him, a heavy crunching sound. Hank freezes, back straightening. His heart thuds in his chest, afraid to move an inch. 

 

“I’m pretty sure Gavin’s missing you to-” He breaks off with a gasp as something collides into his back, shoving him into the snow.

 

~

  
  


_ PM 03:23:12  _

 

Movement, below. Figure - person - man. 

 

_ ›Scanning database… _

 

**_[ERROR]_ **

 

_ ›Scanning new file… _

_ [ Unidentified ]  _

_ Adult. _

_ Male.  _

 

_ Present upon stasis restoration.  _

_ Potentially hostile.  _

 

Sitting. Stay? No - leaving. 

 

. . . 

 

_ PM 09:59:01 _

 

More unidentified humans. White clothes. Computers; equipment, familiar. Bad.

 

Bad place. Can’t go back. Found, discovered— punished. 

 

No. No, no, don’t come near. Stay back, away. Afraid. Don’t touch. Please, enough. Damaged 

enough. 

 

Don’t hurt. Don’t hurt. Don’t hurt. 

 

Do as said. Obey. 

 

No. Can’t, won’t obey. Keep away from me. 

 

Help. 

  
  


. . .

 

_ PM 11:06:11 _

Return of [Unidentified.1] Talking. To RK800-52? Confirmed. 

 

Voice. Nice-irritating. Something, itchy, familiar. 

 

Acquainted? Knows RK800-52?

 

Do not understand. Need information.  

 

_ ›Scanning database… _

 

**_[ERR0-R]_ **

 

Why. 

 

_ ›Scanning database… _

 

**_[ErR0-_ ** **_Я]_ **

 

_ Why.  _

_ ›Scanning database… _

 

**[EЯЯOЯ]**

 

Argh. Need information. _Knows RK800-52._ Knows RK800-52? Oh. 

 

Connection. 

 

_ [ activity not advised, please locate nearest cyberlife center. ] _

_ Biocomponents damaged.  _

 

Do not understand. Need more information to determine approach. Need more information to fix self. 

 

**[ -00:16:58 ]**

TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN

 

Not interested.

 

~

 

Connor manhandles him around so he’s on his back, freezing hands patting at Hank’s coat, frantic. 

 

“Connor, what the he-” Hank breaks off, noticing the android’s skin is scaled back around his hands, showing the white plastic underneath, the way they do when an android interfaces with something. Connor rapidly shoves down Hank’s coat sleeves, grips his forearm, cold plastic pressed tightly against Hank’s skin. Silence and stillness descends upon them. Nothing happens for a long moment. 

 

Hank drags his eyes from their intertwined arms to his partner’s face. Connor’s LED is a solid red. His eyes slowly fill with disappointment as he realizes there’s nothing to glean from Hank’s very human self. And then his weight disappears from on top of Hank. 

 

When Hank sits up the android is crouched semi-behind the blue armchair near the ledge. His brown eyes flicker nervously towards the door, then settle on Hank with some sort of determination.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck.” Hank repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter~~ Getting that plot train rollin tho :D 
> 
> Poor Hank, i cri for him.

 

Hank stares. Connor stares back, for awhile, then averts his gaze towards the ground. He’s panting with his mouth open, eyelids drooping feverishly—in pretty bad shape. One hand is pressed against an open gash in his side, fingers shaking and covered in thirium. Hank’s heartbeat ticks up.

 

“Connor?” he dares.

 

Connor looks up at him, confusion written in the knit of his eyebrows.

 

“Hey. Uh, I guess you can’t understand me, but we gotta get you moved somewhere you can get patched up. Connor.” Hank calls, catching his attention, which seems to be drifting off. “You’re not looking so hot, Con. Here, uh...I’m gonna come closer.”

 

Hank awkwardly shuffles towards the android, slowly, to not startle him, and because it’s hell on his knees. Connor looks at him apprehensively, eyes darting all along his person, probably looking for any sign of danger. Hank holds up his hands placatingly.

 

“I don’t have anything on me besides a phone. I’m not going to hurt you.” Hank promises. Although Connor can’t understand, he hopes the message comes across through body language—but he’s not the negotiator here. Hank carefully draws up closer, then peers worriedly at where Connor’s clutching one his wounds. Connor’s eyes zero in on Hank’s hand when it glides forward, hesitates, lightly rests on the android’s shoulder.

 

Connor’s face twists in fear, then relaxes almost immediately; he drops limply forward into Hank’s chest, gasping and quivering all over. Shit. _Shit. Shit._ Hank’s hands go around him, tuck under his knees, and he heaves and struggles to stand, starts carrying Connor towards the stairs.

 

Hank reaches the ground floor with difficulty. Carrying someone down so many stairs is not an easy feat at his age, and even though Connor’s light, Hank needs to pause constantly to readjust his hold and take a breather. By the time he stumbles down the last of the stairs, Connor has gone still, but is heaving long, broken gasps, eyes closed tight. It looks like a panic attack. Cold blasts Hank’s face when he steps out from the ruined doors, and hurries towards the Cyberlife van.

 

“He’s malfunctioning—shutting down—I don’t know.” Hank growls as technicians hover over his shoulder, pairs of hands reaching to touch Connor, pull cables from the van, tap frantically at displays. Hank props him up inside the vehicle, ducks out of the way of the professionals, but refuses to be excused.

 

He phones Fowler as they drive away.

  


. . .

  


Hank hunches in an uncomfortable chair, watches Connor be poked and prodded, attached to a large claw-like machine. They stripped him of clothes and skin, laid bare. People have been coming and going, coming and going, in and out, bringing new pieces of equipment, leaving with a piece of biocomponent or simply a harried look as they rush to get something different.

 

He looks down at his hands, watches them shake, full of blue blood. Folding them, he uses them as a cradle for his head. He gets left alone for awhile, until there’s a touch on his shoulder and an engineer squints down at him.

 

“Let me take you to a facility where you can wash up, sir.”

 

Hank nods weakly, lets himself be led away to a bathroom, washes up his hands—they stain slightly—and his face. When he shakes the water away, he meets his eyes in the mirror, traces the bags under his eyes, and frowns. He looks like ass. Sniffing and brushing a knuckle under his nose, he whirls away and stomps back to the lab with the engineer.

 

…

 

Hank’s phone call with Fowler is short. The consensus they reach is to wait for Connor’s full repair and then transfer him to Hank’s house, as planned. Hank gets four weeks to work with him. If there’s progress, he gets more time, and if not, Connor goes permanently to Cyberlife to be tampered with and de-coded. It’s not much.

 

Hank watches the Cyberlife techs work on his partner until he starts dozing off, and they kindly shuffle in a couch from the lobby for him to crash on. To his knowledge they worked through the night. He wakes some time in the morning when the same tech from before nudges him.

 

“We’re ready to reactivate him.” The tech makes a vague gesture towards Connor, who’s been re-skinned and is in the process of being clothed with a spare household unit uniform. Hank shoots to his feet, then reels with dizziness. A hand steadies him, leads him towards the platform. Someone walks up with a display, tapping a few buttons, and the claw-thing lowers a bit to rest Connor’s feet on the floor.

 

“This might be a bit shocking, Lieutenant. If you would get closer—you were the last thing he saw and the only one he might recognize, you should be what he sees first. I hope this will limit his violent reaction to his surroundings.” Hank opens his mouth to question that statement, but the women is already pushing more buttons.

 

Connor’s LED bursts into a bright blue, starts spinning rapidly. His eyes flash open and he lets out a scream, back arching against the machine, like he’s being electrocuted. A second later it disconnects and he crashes to his knees, huffing.

 

“Really, _shocking?!_ You meant that literally?” Hank erupts angrily. The tech-women blinks at him, points a finger at herself and then moves it to her lips. Hank makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and approaches Connor. The android lolls his head up, disoriented and blinking quickly as all his systems come to life. He seems to realize the situation he’s in and physically recoils, hunching his shoulders and curling slightly, emitting a growl. Hank crouches a few feet away.

 

“Connor?” The brown eyes focus on him.

 

Hank offers a small smile, “Hey.”

 

Connor anxiously looks over the other people in the room, before re-focusing on Hank and haltingly crawling closer. He stops before he reaches Hank, LED stuck in a yellow cycle, eyes stuck on one of the engineers as they move towards the platform. Connor whimpers, gasps, and topples over on his back, convulsing. Hank’s ears fill with the sound of panicked workers as they go to subdue their patient. Hank scowls.

 

“What the fuck?” He asks to no one in particular.

 

“Hm. Nothing wrong with his biocomponents. Reacting to his environment then—possible trauma regarding the machinery, which would make sense considering he was tampered with.” The same woman as before hums thoughtfully.

 

“What the _fuck_.” Hank repeats.

 

“He’s as fine as he will be, for now. We’ll deactivate him and transport him to your home, where you can try this again, Lieutenant. I’ll have someone get you a computer and the correct connector to use.” She says, staring at her hologram, motioning people around and strutting away.

 

Hank's stuck staring after her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their timer begins now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have an excuse for not updating tbh. General struggle with inspiration and writer's block, general struggle @life. But I'm back and attempting to throw myself at this fic. 
> 
> Thank you for all the kind comments!

Connor gets moved to Hank's apartment, safely transported in a cozy Cyberlife van, deactivated until they can reach safety. Hank bounces around in the back, half-listening as a tech yammers on about controlled environments and reconstructive procedures. The Android is packed into his apartment, deposited onto his couch, and Hank's left with an envelope in his hand, and no idea what to do next. 

 

Their timer begins now. 

 

Sumo snuffs frantically at an unmoving hand hanging off the couch, licking at the fingers. 

 

“ _ Chskt _ ,  _ Sumo _ .” Hank grumbles, going to herd the dog into the kitchen for a brief family conference. “Look boy, I know you're excited to see your friend, just don't be too upset if he freaks when he sees you. It's nothing personal.” Sumo lolls out his tongue. Hank murmurs a quiet praise, pets the dog, and glances around the quiet house. 

 

First things first. Hank goes to the bedroom to scrounge around for his dingy laptop, retrieves it from the lounge chair crevice, and returns to his friend on the couch. With the new cable and a thumb drive from the envelope, plus the charger cable for his own device, he starts plugging things in. It's a little awkward to shuffle the collar of Connor's household uniform into a position where Hank can reach the port on his neck, but it gets done. The laptop starts up, and the thumb drive begins to download some sort of Cyberlife software. Hank leaves to loading bar to crawl it's way across the screen. 

 

It occurs to him that his house isn't feral Android proof. Thankfully, he retains some knowledge about child-proofing after Cole was born, assumes it can't be dissimilar, and the house needs a cleaning anyways. Right. Put the potentially dangerous or breakable objects in the highest cabinets, collect the trash and bring it to the curb, muster the scattered dishes into the sink, move his pistol into a locked drawer, etcetera. While he begins tidying around the living area, his laptop bings. 

 

The program is finished and booting. Hank waits a second and is greeted by a hub of code, and buttons, and files. Too afraid to cause damage, he scrolls to the big 'restore systems’ icon, hesitates. He really hopes this doesn't go the same way it did the first time. Hank clicks the button. 

 

A new window pops up, and code flys by. Another button appears, reading 'force systems ready,’ which Hank concludes is what the Cyberlife engineers must have done.  _ Let him wake up on his own. _ While waiting, he shoots off a couple messages to Fowler and Reed, letting them know the all clear. 

 

Connor stirs gradually, LED circling a healthy blue first, the twitching of his face, the slow opening of his honeyed eyes. He stares blankly at the roof for a long minute, suddenly blinks, and the life is back in him. The LED goes red as Connor shoots up, scrambling to put his back against the couch cushions, hands clawing at his neck to rip the connector out. Hank's protest dies in his throat. Connor glowers mistrustfully at him. 

 

“You’ve obviously got some ironic resentment towards technology right now, but I was only re-booting you.” Hank scolds. Connor is obviously eyeing him for any signs of a weapon. Hank closes and powers down the laptop, grunts as he heaves himself up from the floor. He goes to continue cleaning, opting for the comfort of normalizing today, leaving Connor to get used to the new space. 

 

Sumo bounds for the couch, and there's an undignified squawk from the living area.  

 

… 

 

Hank digs around in his wardrobe for something to put Connor in, because the household uniform grates his nerves. It might have been what Cyberlife had on hand, but Hank refuses to rehabilitate him in that. So... clean sweatpants and a rock memorabilia tee it is. With that, he starts collecting his spare blankets and pillows, even grabbing a couple from his bed, and tromps to the living room, where he lets it all fall into a pile. 

 

Connor is preoccupied with Sumo. They're both on the floor, examining each other; Sumo nosing Connor's cheek, Connor nosing back. He obviously doesn't remember how to interact with animals, and seems to be following Sumo's lead. At least he didn't panic. 

 

“Connor?” Hank calls softly, getting the attention of both of them. Hank hadn't realized, but Connor seems to have wormed his way out of the uniform, or more accurately, shred it somehow and left it on the floor. Hank opens his mouth, closes it, frowns. “You can't go around my house naked, we're putting you in sweatpants at least.” 

 

Hank holds up the article of clothing, walks deliberately towards the Android. Connor eyes him, and makes a break for it. 

 

“This is  _ my _ house, you can't hide from me.” Hank sighs, goes after him. It takes a couple minutes of chasing Connor around the house, but Hank eventually grapples him on the floor, holding him in place with a hand on the hip, and forces him to wear the pants. He's left laughing afterwards when Connor scrambles away, tripping over the long pant legs. And he keeps laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. 

 

… 

 

Hank works on the dishes, feeling invigorated for the first time in...a long time. Having his partner back, even if he’s currently impaired, leaves Hank with a sense of rightness. Sumo lays against his heels, a large, warm lump. 

 

Connor is sitting in the open space between the kitchen and the living room, pretending like he's not watching Hank do human things. He was right about that—Connor’s curiosity never leaves. 

 

Hank lets himself ramble in that general direction. “Looks like Reed's ignoring me, which I don't understand. We had a truce going.” And, “At least we agree on the household uniform, I'm going to burn that thing sometime.” And so on. 

 

When he's finished his cleaning, he turns and Connor's gone, retreated back into the living room. Hank checks the clock, starts turning off the lights in the house. He finds Connor moved the pile of bedthings into the corner and has cocooned himself in it; Sumo wanders over to lay on it, a hand sticks out to pet the dog. 

 

Hank shuts the lights off in there, and goes to crawl into his own bed. So far so good. They were going to take this one day at a time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor  
> Hair: wack  
> Clothes: wack  
> Systems: wack  
> Humans: wack

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and tell me whatcha think!


End file.
